Silver Silence (6 page)

“I know. Very little decent wine makes it across the channel from Gaul these days. But somehow I did not think you would appreciate a skin of
cervesia.
”

That was true. Even bad wine was preferable to barley beer. She forced herself to drink a few mouthfuls. Then she frowned. Another aspect of the Druid’s comment hadn’t made sense at all.

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Good Gaulish wine may be expensive, true, but it’s imported by the shipload. It is plentiful enough.”

Myrddin corked the wine and stowed it in a leather pack before answering. “It once was,” he said. “No longer.”

That was absurd, but she did not wish to argue. At least not about something so trivial. “The mists,” she said, her voice rising. “How did you destroy them? What manner of spell did you cast? You must undo it, at once.”

He sent her an assessing glance as he fastened the buckle on his pack. Straightening to his full height, he picked up the pack and slung it easily over one shoulder. For an old man, Breena thought, Myrddin was certainly agile.

And tall. She did not like the way he loomed so far above her. Drawing a deep breath, she stood.

“It was not I who destroyed the mists,” he said. “That was done long ago.”

“You make no sense.”

A wry smile touched his lips. “Indeed. My life ceased making sense quite some time ago.”

Breena scowled. “Do not jest with me, old man.”

Immediately, he sobered. “In truth, I do not jest. Though I am certain my words do sound like nonsense to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard.

“There is no gentle way to present it, so I suppose a measure of bluntness is in order.” He looked at her intently. “Though we stand in precisely the same place you remember, we have traveled an incredible distance. More than three hundred years.”

Three hundred
years?
Gods. Breena hadn’t considered the possibility that the old Druid might be mad. Mad, and possessed of deep magic. A deadly combination.

“Please,” she whispered. “Restore the mists. Avalon is no threat to anyone. But if the Roman army should discover us…we will be destroyed.”

He shook his head, his eyes infinitely weary. “Believe me when I say, child, that I would never do any
thing to harm your home. But in this time, that is not even possible. The Avalon you know was destroyed long ago.” He paused. “Do you remember nothing of your passage?”

“No, I—” She frowned. “Yes. I do recall…something. A land of shadows. You spoke a Word—no, many Words. I remember thinking I had never heard the language of the Old Ones used in quite that way.”

“It took me many years to discover the pattern and cadence of that spell, I assure you.” He planted his staff on the ground. “You know of the Lost Lands, of course.”

“What Druid does not? They are the vestibule to Annwyn.”

“Then you know the Lost Lands show a different face to each soul that enters.”

“Is that where we are now? In the Lost Lands?”

“No,” Myrddin replied. “We existed in that realm but a short time. You see, the Lost Lands are more than the vestibule to the Otherworld. They are a vestibule to time itself.”

Breena’s head had begun to throb. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I. Not completely. Deep magic, after all, is a complex power. That island lying across the lowlands? I assure you, it is Avalon. But it is not the Avalon you know. It is Avalon as it exists more than three hundred years into your future.”

She studied Myrddin’s face. His expression was grave. He appeared to believe the preposterous tale. “You cannot expect me to accept that.”

“You are too intelligent to disbelieve it,” Myrddin countered. “Look at the sacred isle, Breena. Really look. What do you see?”

She shaded her eyes and peered across the swamp. She had never seen Avalon from this vantage; the mists
had always obscured it. But she had no trouble recognizing her home. The island rose steeply from the water, forming a mound that was roughly the shape of a lopsided egg. She could just make out the apple orchard at midslope, and the roofs of several long, squat buildings just below it. One boasted a square tower.

She blinked. There were no long, squat buildings on Avalon. No tower. Only Celt roundhouses, nestled among rowans and yews. They would not even be visible from this distance.

And the swamp…When she examined it more closely, she realized the marsh was not as it should be. It was as if some giant hand had opened a drain and allowed some of the water to seep out. A wide swath of lowland forest hugged the base of the mountain, where there should have been nothing but a strip of muddy shore. What should have been a glassy expanse of water was broken by shoals and a network of shallow, grassy islands.

“This…this cannot be real. It must be an illusion. Or a dream you’ve cast into my mind.”

“No. No dream, no illusion. This is reality.” He paused. “The woman in your silver vision exists in this time. Lady Igraine is very real, indeed.”

“She is here? On Avalon?”

“No. The duchess dwells some miles to the west, at Tintagel.”

“Duchess? What is a duchess?”

Myrddin grimaced. “I forget how little you know. ‘Duchess’ is the Lady Igraine’s title. Her husband is Gerlois of Cornwall. His title is ‘duke.’”

“Duke? Do you mean
dux?
An army general? And where is Cornwall? I have never heard of the place.”

“A British duke is somewhat like a Roman
dux.
Especially in a military sense. But Gerlois is a landholder as well. His dukedom is called Cornwall. It is part of the kingdom of Dumnonia.”

“You mean Isca Dumnoniorum?” Breena asked.

“King Erbin’s seat was once called Dumnoniorum. The king is very old, and his mind has gone weak. Duke Gerlois is Erbin’s heir, and king in all but name. He controls Dumnonia’s army, and administers all its laws.”

Breena struggled to make sense of it all. “There is no longer a fortress, or a
dux,
in Isca Dumnoniorum. The Second Legion’s home is Isca Silurum now. And there are no kings in Britain. The province is administered by a governor.”

“Breena, I am trying to tell you—there are no legions in Britain. Nor any governor. The Roman army sailed from the island almost fifty years ago.”

“What a preposterous notion—Rome would never abandon Britain! Though I know there are many Celts who yet consider that a pleasant dream.”

For a long moment, Myrddin did not answer. Then his shoulders sagged. “No pleasant dream. Far from it. In truth, Rome’s abandonment of Britain was a nightmare. One that has yet to end.”

A nightmare. Like the vision Rhys’s grandfather had seen of a brutal, hopeless future?

Breena’s heart began to beat an uneven tattoo as her resistance to Myrddin’s preposterous assertions cracked. Could it be true? Had Myrddin’s deep magic brought her through time?

“There was a Seer in my time,” she began. “He…he prophesized two possible futures for Britain. One dark, one light. Is this…” She swallowed. “Is this his dark vision come to pass?”

“I know of Cyric,” Myrddin said. “His Sight was true. His dark prophecy has not yet come to pass, but Britain is careening toward that fate with sickening rapidity. Rome is gone. Druid magic is fading. Barbarians rape the shoreline while petty kings squabble among themselves. And yet, there is still hope. That is why I need your help, Breena.”

She hardly understood what the old Druid was saying. All she could think of was her home, long gone in this time. “If we are truly in the future, then…are they all dead? My parents? My brother and his family?”

Owein and Clara. Penn. And oh, gods—
Rhys.
She squeezed her eyes shut against a crushing tide of grief.

Myrddin rested a hand on her shoulder. Reflexively, she gripped it. “In this reality,” he said quietly, “yes, they are gone. But time, I have found, is not quite the logical concept I once thought it to be. I have discovered that all time happens at once. So in one sense, your loved ones are alive, and well, as they will always be.”

“But…will I ever return to them?”

“Yes. You will. Once your task in this time is done. I promise you that, Breena, on my life.”

She met his gaze. “You brought me here with deep magic.”

“Yes.”

“Then that is a promise you cannot truly offer.”

The expression on his face told her she’d hit her mark. Myrddin might be the most powerful Druid Breen had ever encountered, but he was, after all, just a man. Not a god. And only a god could control deep magic.

The line of Myrddin’s jaw firmed beneath his beard. “I will send you home, Breena. Do not doubt it.”

She peered out over the swamps, drawn by the strange notion that the island rising above the water was a different Avalon than the one she knew.

“Do Druids live openly on the sacred isle in this time? Is Druidry legal? Have they no need of the mists?”

Myrddin’s brows rose. “Do you believe me, then?”

“I’m not entirely sure what I believe,” Breena confessed. “But I’ve decided to trust you.”

He smiled at that. “Ever practical. Thank you, my dear.” His gaze followed hers across the water, and he sighed. “I am sorry to tell you that there are no mists around Avalon because the Druids of Avalon are long gone.”

“Gone! Where? And why?”

“They were driven from Avalon centuries ago. A pair of men, priests of the Christos, pierced the mist and exposed Avalon to the outside world. The legions dispersed the illegal settlement. The Druids fled.”

“But…did they never return?”

“No. The priests, Faganus and Deruvianus, were wise enough to recognize the sacred power of the isle. They established their own settlement. The pair are long dead, but their brotherhood remains. More than fifty holy men of Christos live on Avalon.”

Breena’s brow furrowed. “Who is Christos?”

“A god,” Myrddin said. “You know him as the Carpenter Prophet.”

“But…the Carpenter Prophet was a man! The Lady brought his Grail and his teachings to Avalon. The Druids of Avalon walk in his Light. His priests would not have had any reason to hate us.”

“So one would think.” Myrddin’s voice had gone hard. “But the holy, it seems, are not always known for their tolerance. It mattered little to Faganus that the Druids honored the teachings of the Christos. Not when they also revered the Old Ways. The priests of the new religion believe the ancient gods and goddesses of the Celts are servants of the evil one they call Satan.”

“But surely, the Druids would have gathered elsewhere.”

“Some did, for a time. But as more people flocked to the new faith, they came to view Druid powers as evil. Many Druids were put to death because of their magic.
Others, frightened, rejected their own power. And now Druidry is all but gone.” Myrddin’s lips pursed. “Precious few of us retain the heritage of our ancestors.”

Her eyes widened. “Why…you are a descendant of Avalon! Are you not?”

“I am. I follow the Old Ways.” He tilted his staff so she could more clearly make out the carving on the knob at the top: the triple spiral of the Great Mother merged with the cross of the Carpenter Prophet.

“You carry the symbol of Avalon.” Breena drew her silver pendant from beneath her tunic. “It is the same as mine.”

“Indeed.”

“But your power is very great. Greater than any Druid in my time.”

He inclined his head. “In this time, those with Druid power are far fewer. But those who do possess magic are very strong.”

Something in his unwavering gaze made her shiver. “The gods do not grant great power without equal recompense. What have you paid, Myrddin, for your gifts?”

A shadow passed through his eyes. “A price you cannot possibly imagine, child.”

D
eath could not possibly feel worse.

Rhys pressed his cheek against the dirt and willed his stomach to stop heaving. The ground was cold, very cold, but his body…that was still on fire. No wonder. He’d plunged through a maelstrom of flame to come to this place.

Wherever it was.

How much time had passed since he’d fallen into the standing stone? Without moving, he opened his eyes. The sun was directly before him, low in the western sky. It had dropped little, if at all, since he’d cast his spell.

The straps of his pack burned his shoulders.
His harp.
Shoving himself up on rigid arms, he heaved his body into a sitting position. The ground lurched, then steadied. Easing the pack from his shoulders, he cradled it between his bent legs. Astonishingly, neither the leather bag nor its contents was so much as singed.

Rhys was unharmed as well. His clothing was whole, his skin unmarred. Only his soul had been seared, by magic so deep that one might have stacked ocean upon ocean within it.

He tried to rise. A wave of debilitating fatigue struck. It was an effect of the deep magic he’d called to come to this place. Humans did not easily tolerate the power of the gods. This spell had been so powerful that
Rhys’s own magic, along with his physical strength, had been drained severely. It would be a day at least, he estimated, before he recovered fully.

He tried to lift his pack. It might have been a leatherwrapped boulder for all he was able to budge it. Pain cut through his skull with the ragged edge of an unhoned ax. With a low curse, he dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers to his temples.

Deep magic had wrung him out like a soiled washrag, then pounded him into the dirt for good measure. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to lie down. If he did, he feared he might not regain his feet for a very long while.

He could do nothing but wait. Bit by bit, the pain and fatigue retreated. When he thought his legs could bear his weight, he drew a shaky breath and stood.

He’d done it. He’d followed the unknown sorcerer’s spell into the Lost Lands. He wondered if Breena had passed through the fire, as he had. Most likely, she’d experienced a different trial. Was she nearby now? He could only hope…

He looked about—truly looked—for the first time since opening his eyes.

A curse sprang to his lips. He stood in the same meadow! The stone of the Great Mother stood just steps away. A hot wave of frustration assaulted him. He had not traveled anywhere. The Lost Lands had simply sucked him in, and spit him back out. He was seized by an urge to throw his head back and howl. Instead, he clung to his usual custom of bottling his rage, and scrubbing a hand down his face.

He was so sure he’d recreated the sorcerer’s spell exactly. His utter failure was evidence that he had not. What error had he made? He did not know. Should he try again? Or find the others and tell them what he’d discovered? Perhaps it would be best to join forces with
Gwen and Owein in this. Together, they might succeed where Rhys had—

His thoughts ceased abruptly. His gaze had fallen on the swamp. Gwen’s mists were…gone.

Avalon was plainly visible, awash in a halo of late afternoon sunlight. Rhys’s first thought was for his twin. Gods! What disaster could have befallen her in the short time since he’d left her? Panicked, he grabbed his pack and ran toward the head of the trail leading down to the shore. But when he reached it, he paused.

Something was not right. The swamp—it was not as it should be. Clumps of grass dotted the watery flatland. Where the water should have been smooth and blue, it was instead a bumpy, brackish green. What Rhys knew as a wide, glassy lake, was now shallow fenlands. Silty shoals broke its surface. The smell of the sea was faint. The tidal waters had receded to an impossibly low point.

And Avalon itself? Shielding his eyes against the sun, he peered at the sacred isle. A cluster of stone buildings, one boasting a tall stone tower, was clearly visible in a place where there should have been nothing but grassy meadow. The play of light and shadow on the flat roofs created a patchwork of charcoal and gold. The settlement appeared to be prosperous.

Whatever this island was, it was not the Avalon he knew. He allowed himself a grim smile. He had not failed. The wall of fire had indeed led to the Lost Lands. Which, for him, at least, had manifested as eerily similar to the place he’d once called home.

He began a slow circuit of the meadow, combing the ground for remnants of Breena’s aura, or that of the Druid who’d led her astray. A short time later, his cautious optimism had deserted him. He could discern nothing.

Fighting his frustration, he considered his options.
At one point, he looked skyward, reflexively, for Hefin. But the merlin was nowhere in sight—Hefin had not followed Rhys into the Lost Lands. Rhys felt the bird’s absence keenly. Hefin would have been an invaluable ally in the search for Breena.

Where to look? The logical place to begin his search, he supposed, was on the island that looked so much like Avalon. Hiking his pack onto his shoulder, he set out down the trail to the shore.

It was well past noon on the following day by the time Rhys drew close to Avalon. His first obstacle had been the swamp—unlike in his own world, there were no Druid rafts, conveniently hidden along the shore. He’d been forced to follow the high ground in a wide arc along the water’s edge.

His next problems had been the starless night, and his fatigue. He’d tried to walk in the dark, but succeeded only in stumbling. He’d sat down to await the dawn, and had fallen asleep. When he’d awakened, it was nigh onto midday.

At least the delay meant his magic was once again at full force. That gave Rhys a measure of confidence. He only prayed he would find Breena on the isle that was not Avalon.

The island came into view as he rounded a corner. The low waters revealed a spit of sandy land that reached from the foothills to the isle. A long bridge, over sparkling water, spanned the last part of the distance.

Across this lake, the settlement looked even more extensive than it had from the mountain. A gatehouse stood at the end of the bridge; beyond it lay an unpaved plaza, bordered by a stable and several windowless storehouses. A gated, arched entryway led to what looked like a courtyard, enclosed by several long,
squat, buildings. He could see the top of the tower beyond the slate roofs. An apple orchard spread across the upper slope, just as it had in Rhys’s Avalon. And a great, ancient yew stood in the precise location of the similar, younger tree that shaded the Grail spring on the island he knew.

The juxtaposition of familiar and strange elements disturbed him. He approached the bridge warily, traveling on a dirt track from the north. A wider, paved road to the south was clearly more frequently traveled; a rather large party was visible now, moving toward him. Rhys summoned a lookaway spell and eased behind a screen of tall grass.

Two men on horseback rode in the lead, carrying standards marked with a white cross. Six mail-shirted cavalry soldiers rode behind, flanking a silk-draped litter carried on the shoulders of eight stout porters. A cluster of dark-garbed riders followed. Four baggage-laden mules brought up the rear.

Subtly, Rhys cast his senses toward the travelers. His attention sharpened on the litter. A crimson glow clung to the edges of the hangings.
Magic.

It was not, however, the blue glow of Breena’s abductor. This magic was sparkling crimson. Whoever was inside the litter possessed fire magic, not air magic.

Rhys’s eyes narrowed as the party turned onto the bridge to Avalon. The structure was a sturdy affair of logs and planks, wide enough for two men walking abreast. The lead riders called ahead; a brown-robed figure immediately appeared in the doorway of the gatehouse. A bell was rung, prompting more robed figures to appear, along with a few men dressed in more familiar garb.

The entourage moved past the gatehouse and into the plaza. The soldiers dismounted; the baggage was
lifted from the mules. The litter, its hangings still closed, disappeared through the archway. Rhys emerged from his hiding place and strode the last distance to the bridge. A tiny bird darted amid the yellowing swamp grass hugging the timber pylons.

He hesitated, unsure of his welcome on the island. It would be best to cloak himself in an illusion before crossing the bridge. He was preparing to call the spell when the improbable sound of a singing man, accompanied by the equally improbable song of a flute, reached his ears.

Rhys’s gaze turned to the south. A new party of travelers, much smaller and more ragged than the first, had appeared over a rise in the road. The group consisted of three grown men and one slender boy, all on foot. Scruffy and splashed with mud, they wore ragged shirts oddly accented with scraps of brightly colored cloth.

They were in high spirits, their music accompanied by laughter and good-natured insults. The singer, whose voice was really quite melodious, sported a bald head, a ruddy complexion, and a very large stomach. The musician, by contrast, was a pale, dark-haired young man with little meat on his bones. His graceful fingers flew over the holes in his flute. The resulting melody was so light and sweet, it seemed to dance on the air.

The third member of the quartet was a hulking giant, his blond hair pulled back in a tight queue. He topped Rhys’s own impressive height by a full two hands. The tall man sang a bass counterpoint to his fat friend’s tenor, hitting notes so low they vibrated in Rhys’s bones. Bounding alongside the trio, sometimes running ahead, sometimes hanging back, was an energetic, wiry lad with cropped black hair.

Rhys’s shoulders relaxed. He let the strands of his
lookaway spell drop. While mysterious magicians and soldiers on horseback demanded caution, this odd little band required none. Entertainers were one society Rhys understood exceedingly well.

Minstrels knew the lay of the land, and, to a man, they were inveterate gossips. Rhys could not have asked for a better source of information about this strange world into which he’d been flung.

He waited for the group to notice his presence. The lad had whipped around to walk backward in front of his musical companions, his arms pumping encouragement. The song was sung in Celtic British, mixed with a good bit of Latin, as well as some words that were wholly unknown to Rhys. Nevertheless, Rhys had no trouble grasping the gist of the bawdy ditty. It chronicled the story of a poor farmer who taught humility to his shrewish wife with the aid of a very large carrot.

The ruddy man hit a high, sour note. The flautist winced, and cut his melody. The giant looked skyward and groaned. The younger lad halted in the middle of a backward step, threw up his arms, and let out a stream of profanity foul enough to singe the hair from a pig’s ear.

“Blast and devil take you, Floyd! Did that poxridden wench you had last night cut off your stones? Sing like that at the festival, and we’ll be tossed over the cliffs and into the sea!”

Rhys swallowed a gasp of laughter. The lad was no lad at all—his voice was a man’s, strong and rasping. The sound of it was oddly incongruous with his slender frame, thin arms, and smooth chin.

“Perhaps we should simply heave Floyd into the fens now, lads, and save the good people of Tintagel the trouble.” This from the blond giant, whose chortle of laughter gave the lie to his threat.

The general chorus of agreement with the giant’s
plan brought a scowl to Floyd’s flushed face. “‘Tis difficult to sing well when I’m hungry!”

“If that be the case,” the giant retorted, “ye’d nay hit a single true note.”

“The good brothers of Glastonbury Abbey will fill our bellies,” the thin-faced flautist interjected. “Their tables are sure to be heavily laden in honor of Bishop Dafyd’s arrival. Perhaps tomorrow, Floyd will hit a right note or two.”

“Bishop Dafyd,” snorted the small man with some disgust. “Aye, he eats like a king, but, unlike Floyd here, a full belly ne’er improves the bishop’s temper. I have ne’er in all my life seen a man more in need of a good swiving.”

The giant laughed, showing a set of large white teeth. “True enough, by God! One only wonders if the good bishop prefers a woman’s arse or a lad’s!”

“Or a ewe’s!” chortled Floyd. The young flautist was not amused. “For the love of the Christos, Howell, guard your loose tongue!” He darted a fearful glance at the bridge, as if expecting retribution to come rushing across it. “ ‘Tis a man of God you insult so lewdly. Have you no fear for your soul?”

“None at all,” Howell replied easily. “My concern is for my belly. Bread is my religion.”

“And mine,” declared Floyd. “If bread be lacking, Kane, a jest and a song will inspire someone to fill my stomach far quicker than any prayer would.”

Kane scowled. “There’s no food in the fiery pit of Hell. Think on that as you blaspheme.”

“Ah, lads, lads.” The small man quickly stepped into the center of the altercation. “Fighting amongst ourselves serves neither the Christos nor our empty bellies! Kane, you must learn to accept a jest. Howell, if your highest concern truly is your stomach, have a care! Lewd jests within earshot of the abbey will sooner
earn all of us a night in a sinner’s cell than a place at the good monks’ table.”

The giant accepted the smaller man’s scolding with surprising humility. “Aye, ye have the right of it, Trent.”

“Now make your apologies to the lad, man. God knows we will have no peace, nor any music, if you don’t.”

Howell snorted, but did as he was bid, bowing his head to the flautist. “Kane, apologies. I didna mean to wound your tender sensibilities.” The giant punctuated the apology with a companionable, and very firm, slap between the youth’s shoulder blades.

Kane stumbled forward under the strength of the blow. His face would have ended up planted in the mud, if Floyd hadn’t caught his arm. The youth swung about to face Howell, brandishing his flute like a club.

“You swine!”

Howell hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned.

“Good Lord, men, can you not stop bickering for even a moment?” The small man—Trent—jumped up nimbly, grabbing Kane’s arm. “Have a care, you young fool! Crack that flute in two and we will all go hungry!”